


The Disintegration of Beauty

by Goldenrodsue



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:35:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29508411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrodsue/pseuds/Goldenrodsue
Summary: He was not a commoner living in the forest, Rook thought, but a martyred Saint Sebastian.
Relationships: Rook Hunt/Vil Schoenheit
Kudos: 14





	1. First encounter

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [美学的解体](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29492817) by [Goldenrodsue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldenrodsue/pseuds/Goldenrodsue). 



> Vil is a fallen prince who redeems his life when he meets Rook, who wants him to return to a normal life, while Vil wants revenge.

It was the most beautiful person Rook had ever seen for the first time in his life.

He was not a commoner living in the forest, Rook thought, but a martyred Saint Sebastian, a man whose beauty was sought by the outside world and then destroyed in retaliation. The outside world, having failed in its quest for beauty, retaliated by destroying the beautiful youth's body in the forest with arrows. His own eyes are too clean to repeat the coincidences of history, so Apollo appears as a flashy light.

Since his childhood, Rook has been accustomed to looking for what he considers beautiful around him, what he considers beautiful like the milky white of the sunset that stains the sky, or like the mist that fills the forest in the morning sun. The hunter named Love has never lacked a keen eye for beauty, but the malice of creator has allowed his spirit to meet the flesh of supreme youth.

As always, Rook awoke from a long and dreamless sleep in the early morning, before the sky had emerged from the darkness of the winter night and a ray of golden light coloured the eastern hills. In preparation for this winter hunt, he had left his village to stay in a wooden hut in the woods, hoping to return to his village with the expected game. Last night a thin layer of snow fell from the sky and Rook had to fall asleep to wait for daylight.

He got up, dressed and left the cabin, bow and arrow in hand, and headed deep into the dense forest to the south. The cold winter wind caressed his cheeks and he could clearly hear the sound of waves in the woods, a lush jungle where he could see the prey he longed for coming into view, and he followed the signs of animal activity into the dense forest, his mood growing hotter in the winter cold.

Rook's hands gripped his bow and arrow, ready to fire at a moment's notice, his turquoise eyes fixed on the man before him, no one other than him should be in the forest at this time of year. He quickened his pace towards the man and when the distance reached fifty metres, Rook stopped his stride, noticing that the man did not resist in any way and his body did not seem to be moving, just lying quietly under the tree, as calm as death.

Rook marvelled at the cruelty of putting the fragrant flesh of youth through such an ordeal, always thinking that beauty was the unattainable other side, an eternal gulf that separated them, and Rook can only see it here as he sees it in the sunset, but now he touches it in his senses. He touched the youth's face, his cheeks had turned cold, Rook found him still breathing, beads of sweat seeped from his forehead, Rook's fingers probed the youth's nose, his pulse was beating normally, his nostrils were still breathing, he was still alive, Rook's heart was relieved, as long as he was alive, he looked like the blind woman who had saved St Sebastian. He had no time to think, so he draped his coat over the youth in front of him and carried him gently towards the exit of the forest, the corners of his coat softly brushing Rook's hand like a fish's tail, and a strange emotion arose in Rook's mind, something he had never experienced before, and he panicked a little until he saw the sunlight outside the exit, where is his cabin.

Rook laid the youth on the bed, lit the dry wood in the fireplace to try and warm the house, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a wet towel. When his clothes were removed, the youth's body was covered in various wounds and Rook looked at him with compassion, wiping the wounds with a wet towel and bandaging them before replacing his own clothes on him.

The youth in front of him seemed to be having a nightmare that Rook could hardly know, his brow furrowed in pain, tears in the corners of his eyes, the pain making his face show an unmistakable vitality, a struggle placed between life and death. His face looked beautiful, even more so than when he was at peace, and Rook felt as if he had seen one of the most extreme beauties in the world, and an inexpressible joy came over him, something stirred in his heart, like a fire burning or a clash of stones, and he could not help kissing him, and he felt the softness of his lips, like ice melting in his mouth. When Rook realised this, he was actually shocked by his own actions, he wondered if this was wrong and decided to give up, shaking his head gently, stripping away his inexplicable feelings like a jerk. But when he saw the youth's struggling face again, he felt aroused again and decided to continue doing so, albeit surreptitiously, and dropped another kiss on the youth's lips, scarlet staining his ears with an uneasy shame and self-recrimination as he touched the warmth of his body.

Rook scrambled to his feet when he felt his body change, his sanity, which he hoped would always be bright, suddenly turned to candlelight in the storm with its restlessness. What was certain was that his mind was susceptible to confusion.

From that moment on, Rook decided that he would follow the young man in front of him. But now, he could only wait for the youth to wake up.


	2. Phantasm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vil thought for a moment that he was dead, and thought that was the world of death as he fell into a long darkness.

Vil thought for a moment that he was dead, and thought that was the world of death as he fell into a long darkness.

He saw his body fade in colour and his formerly ornate clothes turn into black and white silhouettes, perhaps his soul would also dissipate. The silhouettes began to coalesce into a materialised presence, forming a blurred figure, in which Vil saw his face clearly, and he saw himself.

Who was he?

Why was he able to see what he looked like?

Shouldn't he have been dead?

A phantasm of himself, Vil recognised it as his childhood self. Born as the son of a royal family, Vil Schoenheir grew up as the future crown prince, a man of great breeding and talent. When a scandal of his mother's disgrace came to light, he learned that he was only the illegitimate son of his mother and was stripped of his title and inheritance and forced into exile on the border of a neighbouring country.

He recalled how he had entered that dreamland, still conscious, when he had gone into the forest to escape pursuers, without any food. Snow fell from the sky and covered his shoulders as he turned his whole flesh against the wandering of his soul, his body suffering from typhoid fever shaking as if he were treading on cotton wool, as if he was getting further and further away from the outside world. An unusual phantasm came to him as he collapsed on the snow of the winter night. The soul seemed to detach itself from the body and float in the air.

In his blurred consciousness, a pair of warm hands embraced him, hands that were gentle, and he clutched them tightly as a gush of warmth surged through his body and the coldness was gradually dispelled.

Who are you?

Vil tried to ask these questions and found that he could not make a sound, like a stone stuck in his throat.

Gradually, he opened his eyes.

"You're awake, Monsieur."

It was the blond man with turquoise eyes, with a smile, seemingly not far from Vil's age, with a French accent, and he wanted to reach out and touch him, but he couldn't move his body.

"C'est sans-souci, you're just too tired. Get some rest!" Rook looked at Vil with a smile, "My name is Rook Hunt, you can call me Rook."

"Rook?" murmured Vil softly Rook's name, still wary, despite the fact that he was covered in bruises and wrapped in Rook's clothes, he still felt like the devil in front of him.

"What's your name? Don't worry, I have no hostile intentions." Rook explained, and as he said the last words, Vil saw his eyes grow deep with the secret of his name.

"Vil," he replied, not wanting to tell Rook his full name. Rook nodded in understanding.

"Vil... No, I'd like to call you Roi de Poison if I could, because you're like an elegant poisonous thorn." Rook smiled, "I'd like to know what you're dreaming about." He could see that the fact that Vil was seriously injured, but still able to make his dreams felt to the outside world, was proof enough that he had trust in him, and Rook wanted to know about the dreams so that he could make a judgement call as to whether he needed to use his identity to work with Vil.

When he heard Rook mention this, Vil's face turned pale and his body trembled involuntarily as he did not want to mention the terrible dream. Seeing Vil's fear of what was in his dream made Rook even more certain that the dream was absolutely extraordinary. His eyes grew more and more determined as he took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat off Vil's forehead.

"Looks like you haven't slowed down yet, get some rest, Roi de Poison."

Rook walked out the door, leaving Vil sitting frozen on the bed, his eyes looking out the window at the snow-capped landscape, remembering what he had seen in his dreams; this was perhaps the most austere place he had lived in over a decade. But where could he go? He thought of the country he was in and the memories came like a tidal wave, the years that had once passed through Vil's fingers like bubbles in a floating shadow.

There was nowhere else for him to go. The distant mountains are painted white with snow, a few snowflakes fall softly on the window, Vil tries to touch it, the snowflakes melt in his burning palm, like the broken phantasm.


End file.
